


Upon a Midnight Clear

by golden_bastet



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 15:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13126143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_bastet/pseuds/golden_bastet
Summary: A story of partners and chance.(Translations at the end.)





	1. French Front, 1914

Bodie had never lacked for imagination, and especially not a week before Christmas. It had served him very well over the course of his life.

One sterling example came from his days as a lad, when he and his mates stole a firkin of Laphroaig's finest from a dray pulled up behind the Dog and Pearl. They'd wrangled it into an abandoned building, got it open; proceeded to get drunk and, in turn, the sickest they'd ever been. Bodie grinned in memory. Weren't able to sit until after Christmas, either, after their Das had got to them.

Then there was another Christmas season, a few years later; spent in wonderful effort to get into Sara Lennox's good favour and proceed into her better graces. Had got almost all the way there, too – and then she'd upped and left him for some tosser down by the docks. He'd gone down to the docks, too, to confront said tosser – and got laughed in the face for his troubles. It was lucky the stevedore hadn't flattened him and thrown him in the Mersey; had seen a mere boy more mouth than trousers and had actually let him down easy; but then Sara had been an older, maturer seventeen, less interested in a fifteen year old than in the adventure of the whole thing.

Though truthfully, Sara and her wharf rat paramour had done him a favor, once Bodie's heart (or more his pride) had recovered: they'd led him to noticing the ships, and the sea, and a way out of the dead end his life was becoming.

He spat into the mud puddles around his feet. _Yeah, dead end._ He'd left Liverpool and the Merseyside behind, alright – to get stuck slaving away on a merchant ship, jumping ship to fritter away years in various forgotten corners of the Ottoman Empire, then running into the arms of His Majesty's Armed Forces to get out of a prison sentence and in to something he could recognize as civilization. And that in time for some Austrian toff to get himself plugged, and there was Bodie in the army. To find himself a week before Christmas freezing his arse off in French mud, while the Huns were doing their utmost to perforate him.

This was different, with no clear way to celebrate much of anything, much less the end of 1914.

“Yeah, Happy Christmas, lads.” He spat into the mud of the trench once again. “Ta very much.”

*===============*

“Sir!” Bodie turned to see a messenger double-timing down the trench's duckboards, in search of a superior, any superior.

“Yes, soldier?” The major, appearing from just beyond the turn in the trench, seemed slightly bored, if attentive enough.

“Supplies're waiting just outside camp; requesting permission to approach and unload.”

“Permission granted. Have them move in, and be smart about it. We don't know how long we'll have to get them stored before the fireworks start again.”

“Yes, sir!” The private saluted smartly then moved off.

After the first few words, Bodie tuned out the remainder of the reenactment, given the number of times he'd heard it all. _Sun goes down; firing stops. Eighty-eight to ninety-three minutes later, envoy shows up requesting permission to resupply. Permission granted, he clicks his heels and leaves. Forty-five to fifty-three minutes later, crates come rumbling in. Another two hours for things to settle down, but eventually – say, about 2 the following afternoon – rations and personal posts appear._

The same dance, but no change – no relief from why they were here.

At least they were getting fed.

“Seems to work out, when you think about it.” Anson was from down south, London way; he and Bodie couldn't be more different, but they seemed to get along well enough. “Jerry stops the firin' for a bit, we stop firin' on them for a bit, and we all get food and save some ammo so we can start up again in the mornin'.” He stopped to puff on a cigar, one of an endless stream which seemed to be magically replenished with every post delivery. “You could go out and dance over No Man's Land, be jus' as safe as houses while all this supplying is going on.”

“Well, no supplies, no cigars for you. Though that would be a bit of a relief; you're likely to go up in a cloud of smoke one day.”

“Eh.” Anson gave a two-fingered salute, then drifted down the line in search of new victims.

“Where's 'e going, then?” Turner came up behind Bodie, just in time to see Anson slip off around the bend in the trench.

“Saw you coming with your Brownie. You'll have to forgive Anson, he's naturally shy.” Bodie give Turner a closer glare, not very enamoured of photography himself. “You still playing boy reporter? Thought you'd leave off by the hundredth image of the latrine.”

“Bodie, this – this is important. It's a visual record, not the romantic war hero myth. People will see exactly what it's like here. I am more than happy to keep my children and grandchildren from going through this ever again.”

“What, you've found a way to capture the wet mud and the fine bouquet? At any rate, don't let the MPs catch you snapping away, or there'll be hell to pay.”

“Don't care. And most of the time, they don't care, either. Besides, this is too important; the truth needs to get out. I just wish I could get a moving picture camera out here.”

“Well, I'll go look for you in the museum in fifty, seventy-five years. You have fun with that.”

“Your loss, Bodie. But you don't know what you're missing.” Turner moved off in the direction Anson had taken.

*===============*

“Report, private!”

“Yes, sir! Twenty hours and all's well, sir!”

“And the enemy, lad?”

“Setting up Christmas trees, sir!”

“Setting up Christmas trees?” The note of incredulity cut through the cold air.

“And lighting candles. - Sir!” The incredulity cut both ways.

“What the,” the major muttered, then peered over the edge of the trench, binoculars in hand. “Is this a war or a bloody social do?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Anything else to report, private?” louder to the soldier, because the major really had little else to ask.

“Champagne, sir – or at least some form of spirits being distributed earlier in the evening.”

“Will wonders never cease,” the major muttered, then turned back to the sentry. “Let this be a lesson to you, Smith. Notice that the enemy is acting completely unwarlike; we could sweep in and decimate them in a matter of an hour. Those Jerrys have no idea of how to conduct themselves on the battlefield. Mark my words, private: in six months you'll be back home, and someday you can tell your sprogs about how you beat the Germans in less than a year without breaking a sweat.”

*===============*

> “O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,  
>  wie treu sind deine Blätter ~  
>  O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,  
>  wie treu sind deine Blätter ~”

Now Bodie was just annoyed with the Boche.

A ceasefire was one thing. Mind, his lot benefitted from it as well; it was a chance to retrieve the dead, take stock of the overall situation, and even get a break from the incessant ra-ta-tat-tat of guns and bullets overhead. And it _was_ odd, but he understood the morale boost of a decorated Christmas tree, even a small one. But the strains of carols floating back from the German lines were just an insult, plain and simple. Christmas wasn't a German holiday to his lot, and the accent just was a stark reminder of how they'd been dragged from their hearths and loved ones to face an unseen enemy who celebrated - _celebrated_ \- in the midst of a war.

> Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit,  
>  Nein auch im Winter, wenn es schneit ~

_Bloody Boche._

It was bad enough that they were stuck in the middle of bloody France, in the muck and frozen mud of a trench in the middle of the night, far from home and no guarantee they'd ever see it again.

And now the men trying to kill them were having a _party_ , for Christ's sake.

> O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,  
>  wie treu sind deine Blätter ~

It was not right. It could not, _would_ not, stand.

> O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,  
>  Du kannst mir sehr gefallen!

And he bloody well didn't want to listen to the Boche caterwauling all night.

The words started tumbling from his lips before he'd really thought about them.

> “Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of Stephen ~”

Anson looked up abruptly from whatever he'd been thinking of, frowned for a minute – and then pulled his cigar from between his lips to sing.

> “When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even ~”

Other voices joined in, and the carol spread throughout the trench.

> “Brightly shone the moon that night, though the weather cruel ~”

Wrapped up in the song, they no longer noticed the Germans on the other side of No Man's Land.

> “Then an old man came in sight, gath'ring winter fuuuuuuuel ~”

They stopped at the end of the stanza. The chords floated up into the hush of the night, beneath the icy moon.

“Frohe Weihnachten, verdammte Engländer!” rang out from across the divide.

“Happy Christmas, bloody Boche,” yelled back one of the men.

*===============*

“Report, private!”

“Twenty-four hours and all is well, sir!”

“And what is Fritz up to now, soldier?”

“All quiet, sir. Not a sound to be heard.”

“Good,” mumbled the major. “Must be a-bed by now. About time we got on with the war so we can win it and go home.”

*===============*

The singing and the greetings done, the two armies settled down to a measure of quiet for the night. Bodie huddled in his own corner and nodded off, not having guard duty scheduled.

Too early in the morning, a cup of something that passed for coffee was pushed into his hand, waking him up. He could see his breath in the crisp air, as several men silently moved about him, making preparations to face the day and the Germans once again.

 _Face the Germans._ The Boche'd certainly been in their cups the prior night, what with all the singing and shouting well into the night. Any British soldier worth his salt was well acquainted with a bit of tipple, but to date he hadn't seen any of them involving the enemy in their celebrations.

Bodie took a careful peek over the edge of the trench, mindful even though there'd been no shots fired since the prior day. _Never hurts to be careful, don't want to become a notch in someone's belt._ The usual concert wire and frozen mud greeted his gaze; both sides had bundled off their dead during yesterday's ceasefire, so there was nothing of note on the field.

 _Except over there._ Some movement, commotion over on the German side. Bodie swung his rifle around to its accustomed position in his hands, but froze when he saw the stick with a crude white cloth tied to its end emerge into the wan sunlight.

It was followed by three figures. Two were standard-issue Huns, ruddy-faced and on the stocky side; but the third was surprising: whippet thin, with an elegant grace, he looked too young, too insubstantial to even carry a gun. Add the look of hope combined with utter disdain, and he didn't look German at all.

All three were unarmed, as far as he could tell. _Well, they are carrying the flag._

_But didn't know the Huns were that hard up for recruits. Yes, this'll be a short war, then._

“Sir,” he hissed back to the major, and the troops scattered along the sides of the trench. “Boche, dead ahead. Three of 'em. Carrying a white flag.”

“What's this?” The major swiftly climbed onto the platform next to Bodie, training his binoculars on the odd procession.

“Engländer!” the one holding the flag belted out. “Engländer! Ve are unarmed, ve vish to shpeak!”

“Sir, how shall we proceed?” Bodie turned to the officer.

The major, ever professional, took it all in stride. “It does look like they're unarmed. Peterson! Anson! Put your weapons down and go over, see what they want. Bodie! You're the best shot in the unit. I want you to keep an eye on what's going on. If they decide to pull something -”

“Yes, sir, I'll know exactly what to do.” Bodie grinned, a most disturbing grin.

*===============*

Bodie observed the proceedings from his perch against the side the trench. He could just hear the conversation in the frigid air.

“So, Franz and Hans, you can stop right there.” Anson gestured, pointed to a spot before the German trio. “What brings you to the shores of our humble trenches?”

“Ve haf come to tell you,” the one in the foreground said, “to... ah, ah” the man was clearly searching for the right term. “Ah -” he turned to his companions, launching into a rapid-fire stream of something Bodie figured had to be German, “Wie sage ich ‚treffen wir uns für Weihnachten‘?”

“Ich weiß es nicht. Fragen Sie den Mischling dahinten,” replied the second man, shrugging.

The thin man instantly clouded over, seeming like he was about to launch himself at the pair. Anger was coming off him in waves, like he was almost vibrating. _Interesting._ Bodie paid closer attention.

“Ich kann dich nochmal in den Arsch treten, weißt du,” he replied. “Soll ich ihnen sagen, dass du wirklich Hans heißt?”

“Ach, halt die Klappe Doyle und erzähl den Engländern, warum wir hier sind,” the first man replied.

“Fick dich,” the stroppy one answered; then, turning to the two British soldiers, said in perfect English dusted with a touch of the Midlands and a hint of snark, “we come in friendship and the spirit of the season, to visit with you for Christmas.”

“I could have sworn I heard him say that in English.” Anson's cigar didn't drop, though there had been a slight waver to it. “Mind, it wasn't exactly RP.”

“I'm right here, bastard,” the stroppy one replied. “Look, do you want to come out or not? Because we could just as well go back to our side and play a fifteenth game of football.”

Anson looked over at Peterson. “Well, not like we need to be anywhere specific. Don't see why not, if there's a truce.” He nodded towards the trenchworks behind him. “We'll tell the major, get a few of the lads together, and meet you back here in fifteen minutes. And by the way, how did you -”

“Ten minutes. And none of your business.” Master Stroppy turned and strode back to the German trench.

Anson and Peterson looked at Franz and Hans. “Fifteen, yes, is okay,” Franz shook his head with the slightest shade of sadness, “ve exchange die gifts.” Hans shrugged again, nonchalant. The four men turned back to their respective trenches.

 _What an arsehole_. Bodie smirked as he lowered his rifle. The episode was the most entertaining thing Bodie had seen his entire time in the army, and he'd seen quite a bit.

*===============*

Fifteen minutes later found a variety of men cautiously streaming out onto No Man's Land, to huddle in two distinct groups on the field. Given the amount of time the ceasefire had held, the figures edging the field were less mistrusting than they might have been twenty-four hours earlier; despite that, they stuck to their own, eyeing the others and stamping around in the mid-afternoon chill to keep warm.

Bodie was up on the field with the lot of them; the major had ordered him to find out what he could about the Midlands Boche, what his story was. Bodie was sure it was a simple case of traitorism, and personally would have just shot the man; but he was nothing if not a good soldier. And based on last night's ribaldry, he wouldn't say no to a good party.

 _Oh, what the hell._ Unsure how much time they'd have, and seeing no other movement, Bodie headed towards the German huddle, his fellow soldiers close behind. Bodie took his helmet off, shaking his matted locks to keep them from freezing, then glanced over to the Germans – just in time to see the mouthy German remove _his_ helmet and shake out a messy head of curls, quickly running his fingers through them, which only mussed them further.

 _Again. What the hell._ Definitely like no German Bodie had ever seen.

One of his fellow soldiers came over and said something to the man, a sneer on this face. Which must not have gone down a treat, as the reply was accompanied by a two-fingered salute.

 _Does that even translate into German?_ Bodie expected a five-fingered follow-up, but a third German stepped in and, nodding off in the direction of Bodie's lot, looked to successfully dampen the sparks.

The two groups began to blend; and pipes, tobacco pouches and other knickknacks materialized.

Bodie slowly made his way through the knots of men, taking an indirect route to his target.

The first German he spoke to was more than friendly enough, but commanded much too little English; so, after a couple of hand signals and a swap of cigarettes, Bodie moved on.

Just as his target was mere feet away, there was a shout, and a rag ball materialized from the German trenches. The men sorted themselves into teams, and they got down to it.

Bodie quickly manoeuvred himself to face the mystery man.

The ball ranged across the field, with the Germans giving as good as they got. Despite the reputation they had around the English camp, the Huns quickly turned out to be very good players who were making the English work for every step they took on the frozen ground.

Bodie also found that the mouthy German was turning out to be a force of nature himself. Charging forward almost recklessly, surging back, arching his body to intercept the ball as it curved above them: making it his to do with as he would.

“How'd you learn to do that?” Bodie figured now was as good a time as any to start a discussion, as they waited for the ball to return to their sector of the field.

“What?” The man was distracted, watching the ball.

“Intercept. Always thought the Boche played more conservative ball than that.”

“We play just as well as you do, mate; and in fact, probably a little better,” as the ball went skidding past the English goalie to score. “And you may consider that one as payment for the Boche crack.”

“Bloody 'ell!” yelled Bodie, who despite weather and goal, was enjoying the opportunity to run about freely and burn off energy. Then, lower, “well, what else should I call you? Mortal Enemy? Traitor?”

Looking back at this moment, Bodie never quite understood how someone could move so quickly, be so completely in someone else's field of vision. “How about the man who's going to kill you once the war's back on, _Sunshine_. Not a mortal enemy, not a traitor. Very much German. More n' that is none of your fucking business.”

“Your country is very much my fucking business, _Angelfish_ , because your country is trying to kill me.“

“No, the aim is to keep _your_ country from always meddling in our business. Lay off us, and we'll lay off you.” Doyle growled.

However, Bodie noticed something in the tone, something that didn't sound convinced. _But why should I care? He'll be gone soon enough, and we'll be back to shooting at each other. No guarantee that he'll get home._ Well, he had a job to do, so he decided another tack.

“So, you must've been in England at some point. Sound too authentic, you could pass for one of us.”

“Saying I'm a spy, then?”

“No, else you wouldn't be here in a trench. Just saying that you're too much of a native English speaker. Hell, maybe our paths crossed at some point.”

“Didn't they tell you anything about being a soldier? Supposed to dehumanize the enemy, trash talk him. Don't make 'im human. That'll make it easier to kill him.” The man's anger seemed to have defused a bit.

“So set on killing, you are. Enjoy the break while it lasts, because you'll be pining for it before long.”

“What – this isn't your first time to the dance, then?” The man sounded surprised.

“Yes, in fact. Been a soldier from before this. The whole thing was a little better organized then, before the War Board started welcoming all and sundry.”

“You volunteered for this? Someone would do that willingly?”

“Sometimes you take the opportunities that you get.” _Especially when it's His Majesty's Armed Forces or a foreign prison. Or a death sentence, which was the same thing._ “What, it's not home away from home for you?”

“No, it's not. My mo – have obligations at home.”

“The only son in your family, then?”

“Younger sister, but that's it.”

“Then you shouldn't be here, the only son in the family.”

“Doesn't work like that in the Kaiser's army, sunshine. They call, you go.”

Bodie just looked at him, thoughtful.

Play came skittering over to their section of the field, and the conversation was put on hold.

The ball moved down the field slowly but surely, passing from German to German, moving closer to where some pails and coats had been thrown to make the English goal. Bodie kept an eye peeled _I can get this_ as it approached him. He shot over and nicked it from the German offence, then shepherded it back towards the other end of the field. _Got this, got this, keep it moving -_

Then a whirlwind sluiced by him and appropriated the ball. _The Englischer Hun._ He turned to follow the sphere, cutting the man off before it could get too far. The other man came to a stop about five metres off, shuffling the ball around his feet.

“Looking for this, then, Tommy Atkins?”

 _Cheeky bastard._ “Most definitely, Englischer.”

The man snorted. “That's not even a real word.”

“Suits you, though.”

“You _would_ think so. Okay, then, Tommy – if you want the ball, you'll have to come get it, now won't you?”

And Bodie did.

They danced across the field in an electric ballet, the German keeping Bodie from the ball while Bodie kept him from advancing any closer towards the English goal. It was annoying, aggravating – and one of the most energizing things Bodie had been part of. They seemed very equally matched; he feinted, Bodie followed. He shot the ball off at an angle; Bodie captured it, pivoted, shot it off himself – and the other man recaptured it.

They stood, both breathing heavily, looking at each other, unaware of the others on the field. It was like seeing oneself in the mirror of the mind's eye, a perfect reflection of your other half.

_Hot tempered, but he's a good man. Worth knowing. Won't fall if they push. And I'd lay odds they've pushed very hard._

The other man smiled a crooked grin, and jerked his head towards the other players. “Shall we let them have a chance, too, then?”

Bodie grinned back. “Lets.”

The ball shot back behind the thin figure; the others on the field reanimated and the play moved farther down the field. The two men stood together in companionable silence, watching the rag sphere travel about.

It shot into the English goal again, and the Boche were ahead, two-nil.

“Bloody Boche,” muttered Bodie.

The Englischer laughed.

*===============*

The next day, and still no fighting. Anson and Benny started conjecturing about what they might do once they were home, after the war. Bodie smoked half a fag, then threw it into the mud – a wasteful habit he detested, but had started indulging in.

Round about mid-morning, after the breakfast rations were well away, the white flag came up and the Germans started streaming onto the field. One nod from the major, and the British crawled over the edge of the trenches and moved to where they'd been the prior day. The game picked up from where it'd left off, though the rag ball was a little the worse for wear.

“Have a good night, Britisher? Get yer beauty sleep in?” The Englischer Hun was disgustingly awake, though snarky as ever.

“Had a perfect night. Felt like I was sleeping on a cloud, the angels round me plucking their harps. What about you, Boche-y Boy?”

“Oh, had twenty Rheinlander maidens to do my bidding.”

'What, your mother, grandmothers, and an army of aunts and cousins?” Bodie answered, not missing a beat.

The German looked at him, and then broke into a loud guffaw. “Must've been at my house, then. Me mam made sure I buttoned up well, too.”

“Well, you look like a good wind would carry you off. Get the sense you're tough, though – they won't push you over.”

The man just looked at him, silent, expectant.

Bodie knew there was something happening here, something he didn't quite understand, but something that might change things as he knew it.

But it would all depend on his next words.

“No, you can take care of yourself. Sure of it. British-raised in Germany, that's the only way to survive. Anyone partnering with you would be lucky; you'd be a plus to have as a mate.”

The man eyed him, now cool, assessing.

_Couldn't have got it wrong – pretty sure I saw it there -_

“German raised in Britain, more like,” he said simply. “Or, truthfully, both.”

Bodie remained silent, giving him room to continue on.

“Mother German, father British. We lived in Derby. One day, Da didn't wake up. Ma decided if she was going to be alone, she'd be alone amongst her own, so we came back to her village.”

“A snap for someone like you.”

He rolled his eyes, those expressive blue-green eyes. “Sure, and you give a dog a bone, it'll worry it down to nothing. I was a curiosity, which in a small town is a liability. Oh, got the tongue down; been speaking it since I was born, Ma made sure of that. And my sister was very young when we left, so she didn't have any memories of England. But for me, not having been there from birth, and having a foreign name, always stuck out. She changed it to her own, Mueller, but they knew it had been Doyle.

“I was a right tearaway, too; best way of protecting yourself in the world when it's just you. But always kept an eye out.

“And then the war came. Volunteered for it; not much choice there. Of all places, didn't want to face the English, shoot at the other half of the family. But this is where they put me, and this is where I stay, except every once in a while, when they trot me out to translate things.”

A little voice in the back of Bodie's mind spoke of enemies and one's sworn duty. He ignored it.

“You know, maybe one day this war will be over, and maybe I'll get back, see what's happening with the Doyles. See what I missed while I was with my mother's people.”

“Well, if you're in the neighborhood, stop by. Would enjoy meeting up for a pint.”

“And who might you be? Haven't been exactly open with the introductions yerself.”

Bodie laughed; he _hadn't_ mentioned his name. “Bodie – they just call me Bodie.” They shook hands, and Bodie went on, volunteered more. “From Birkenhead, though my family moved to Liverpool when I was a sprog. Da runs a pub.”

“So you're paying, then?”

“Or my Da is. For a German solider, ha!” And then, “oh, bloody HELL!” as the ball zoomed past the English defences once again.

Doyle just laughed his deep, throaty laugh. Bodie was entranced.

*===============*

“Eh, what's that?” Bodie ambled over to Turner and Anson, who were huddled together over some sheets.

“Photographs,” Anson explained. “Turner here brought out that camera of his; been taking some snaps of the games wth the Germans. Though he managed to avoid anything showing the Germans actually winning.”

“Heh – that would be virtually every minute of every game.” Bodie chuckled.

“Well, he got some great pictures for all that.”

“There's one with you and the crazy German, Bodie,” Turner thrust a sheet at him. “Pretty good image, if I say so myself. Light turned out well, motion turned out perfect; it's a good example.”

It was them, alright; engaged with the play, and each other, on so many levels. The image captured something that had gone on between them, something that Bodie subconsciously had felt but hadn't identified.

_Don't mention the German. He is the enemy, after all._

“Photo turned out pretty well. It _is_ a good example. Got my good side, too.” They all laughed.

“Want this one, Bodie?” Turner offered. “I can print another.”

“Sure, why not. Something to tell the grandkids, I suppose.”

*===============*

They were on the cusp of the new year, though no one spoke of what might happen after the holidays.

The truce still held, though it was still early in the day for them to travel out to No Man's Land. The early morning weather was chilly and overcast, but the men were more relaxed than at any time since they'd been stationed in France. Benny sat whittling on a piece of wood, Anson chewed on his omnipresent unlit cigar.

 _This truce has been good all around. For both sides._ Bodie thought about the stroppy Englischer, and what they'd discuss next.

He looked up at noises coming from further down the line. There was movement at the end of the trench, and the major's cap appeared, floating ever closer. _Looking more official than usual. Something must be up._ He wandered closer to where he figured the major would end up.

“Gentlemen.” The major threaded his way through the clumps of men, stopping at the head of the trench. “ATTENTION!”

The men came to a semblance of order, or as much as they could in the mud and muck of the trench.

Bodie had a bad feeling.

“There has been a truce over the past several days. The break in hostilities has given us the opportunity to reclaim our war dead, review our fortifications and defences, and take stock of our strategy. As of today, these aims have been achieved. Given that we are in a war, and not a tea party, the truce is now at an end. While we will not fire the first shot, there will be no more meetings with any enemy forces.

“I do not need to remind you that you all will behave in accordance with the British military code, and remember that you serve your king and country. Any deviations from these orders will be viewed as insubordination and dealt with accordingly, up to and including court-martial.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, SIR!” The response echoed.

“Then, at ease.” And the major strode off, blank-faced.

Bodie felt numb.

Within the space of an afternoon, the first few shells exploded, and then the barrage of old started up again. It wasn't clear who launched the first armaments; but it was clear that there would be no more visits, no chance to breath deeply and get away from this thing called war.

No chance to speak to the Englischer, find out more about each other.

They went back to a schedule of ceasefires at the end of the day to gather their dead and bring in supplies; Anson started lighting his cigars again, and Bodie felt a weariness – in its absence, he'd recognized it for what it was – seep into his body once again.

And one time, Bodie peeked just over the edge of the trench, carefully making out what little he could of the German trenches. It was nearly impossible to see much of anything; but once he thought he was the very top of a curly head, just for a few seconds.

 _He's not stupid enough to walk around with his helmet off._ The best shot in the unit fired high, too high to be of much use.

He didn't mention it to anyone.

*===============*

The days went on, one after the other, until they merged into a gray mass of mud, and clouds, and cold. Months passed, and Bodie's platoon moved from trench to trench, had breaks and rotations away from the front lines, but each trench was identical to the others. Sometimes it would be warm for an extended period – what they once would have considered a different season – until it was broiling in the sun; then the temperature would gradually drop once more until it was once again chilly in the daylight. Some days would be punctuated by vivid red and the stench of burning flesh. And sometimes the men in the trench would change; some would vanish and new faces would appear. In the end, though, there was always the boom of weapons as the background music; that never changed.

The pure horror was in the _sameness_ of it all.

And occasionally, just occasionally, Bodie would briefly think about the Englischer, and the time they'd had, though he'd then put it out of his mind.

*===============*

“Know what day it is, mate?” Anson floated into his consciousness, cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. Bodie looked at the face peering at him. He'd always thought that the man's tobacco supplier at home didn't get a tenth of the credit that was due.

“C'mon, Bodie, don't drift off on me now. Today's a specific day.”

“The day we go home?”

“If only.” Anson's look chastised Bodie for verbalizing the thought. “No, it's Easter, Easter 1916. Somehow, we've made it this far. Though now I've spent more time with you lot than I have with my wife.”

Bodie would have sworn the man was older than that; though he might have married older, had a child bride. None of them were that much on details about back home, after all.

“Back when we had that football game, thought we'd be done with all this soon after. Pretty sure Hans over there thought that, too.” Anson jerked his head in the direction of the fighting.

“Those were good days, though, or as much as fookin' France in the middle of a fookin' war can be 'good'. We at least knew that they wanted to go home as much as we did. Now we're just tryin' to kill each other, no niceties about it.”

“Well, s'not about you or me, is it?” Bodie pulled himself together, enough to look steadily at Anson and reply. “I'll follow a good commander to the ends of the earth – in fact, I already have. But this isn't about a good commander. It's about the toffs in their palaces and castles, moving us about like pieces on a chessboard. They get to go home at night, have their roast beef and pudding, and get up tomorrow and do it again. We're here with our tinned meat on a good day. We can lose a limb, we can die; we're the ones who get punctured. Sometimes I wonder why we don't all just pack it in and leave, go back to where we came from and back to what we were doing. Maybe go to Germany, visit some of those lads, show them in the end we want to live in as much peace as they do.

“Then again, sometimes I wonder why we don't all just shoot the officers and leave. Same difference, that.”

“Whatever you say, mate,” Anson looked at him a little warily. “We've got this far, no doubt we can make it to the end. _Without_ turnin' against our own. You just focus on the Huns over there.” Anson pointed, spat a bit, then wandered off down the line.

*===============*

Bodie sat with his back to the earthen side of the trench. _Christmas Day 1916_ , one of the others had said. He felt like he was about to explode, like he'd become part of the ordnance that had been falling around him for years, and his time to bloom was almost nigh. Benny was long gone, picked off one fine spring afternoon by a sniper secreted across the way. Anson had been transferred out to another unit months back; neither was one for letter-writing, so he had no idea how the cigars were going.

Bodie looked back over the top of the trench. _Yes, if it weren't for the Boche, we wouldn't be here._ He aimed in the general direction of the German line, and fired. _Would never have met that Englischer, the traitor, would be home in my own bed._ He looked again, thought he'd seen something moving. There it was again – could it be? _Looked like a curly head to me._ He let loose, fired repeatedly at the position. He was unable to tell if he'd hit anything.

Something came lobbing in, trailing phosphorescent smoke, landing a few yards down. He scrabbled for his gas mask.


	2. Liverpool, 1925

“Bodie. His name is Bodie, he was stationed in France during the war.” The curly-haired man was even-toned, but insistent.

“Well, dearie, lots of Bodies around these parts. And lots of men served in the Great War, as well. No first names?”

“No, just called himself Bodie. Knew him in '14.”

“That was early on. What did he look like? Do you have a photo?”

“Well… tall, fair-skinned. Deep cornflower blue eyes.” It may have been ten years, but the curly-haired man effortlessly recounted the memory. “Said his Da ran a pub in Liverpool.”

“Well, that does sound like my great-nephew, at that. Never liked his christian names; then again, ran away early on. It _could_  be him. Here, dearie, have a seat. I'll put the kettle on, and I just might have something to help you.”

The man did his best to hide his impatience, and the old woman came back with a tray, the makings of afternoon tea, and a small wooden box.

“Here you go, this will do for you.” She poured a dark, strong tea into a delicate blue china cup, and placed two biscuits on a small plate; then, after serving Doyle, poured a second cup for herself. Doyle noticed a slight chip in the second cup before she turned it away from him.

Three slurps of the hot brew and a bite of biscuit, and he couldn't wait any longer. “So, your great-nephew… does he live nearby?”

“Well, let's find out if it's him first, eh?” But she smiled a kindly smile at the stranger. “I know you lads went through quite a bit during the war, so you eat up and I'll see what I can find.” She pulled the wooden box closer and, opening it, started rifling through a collection of papers. “No,… not that… not that… Ah! This is what I was looking for.” And she produced two photographs.

“Now this, this is my great-nephew Philip Bodie.”

The first photo was a standard military pose of a soldier in uniform, a record taken before leaving for duty. Private's wool uniform, brass buttons, wool cap. It was more than enough proof for Doyle; but it was the second photo that made him pause for a long instant, color drained from his face, and staring intently: it was a football game, a mix of English and German soldiers scattered across a field. And in the front, one figure that had to be Bodie, smirking defiantly at a thin, curly-haired man in a German uniform who stared just as defiantly back.

“There's a picture,” he muttered, incredulously; and then, “yes, yes – that's him.”

“Poor Philip; those were taken early on, but the war wasn't good to him.”

“He's not -” The man sounded almost panicked.

“Dead? Oh, goodness, no, though it might've been a mercy. No, ended up getting gassed at the end. Stayed in far too long, if you ask me; they shouldn't have let anyone stay more than a few months. But they needed all the men they could get.” She looked sadly at the photos. “Never was the same when he came back, either.”

“Is he here now?”

“No, said he needed a complete change, went down to London. Not much for him here anyway.” She looked longingly a the portrait. “Heard from him for a bit, then nothing. If something serious had happened, I'd expect notification, but Philip left long ago. My favorite nephew, too. I do miss the lad.”

“Do you have an address for him in London?”

“Why yes, I do. Wait a minute.” She rose slowly, then made her way out of the room.. Within a few minutes, she had returned with a yellowed scrap, writing paper, and a pencil.

“Here you go, young man. You can copy it on that.”

Doyle took the paper and hastily scribbled.

She looked at the photo of the game again, then pushed it over to the lad. “Here, why don't you take the picture. It's just sitting here, and it might help you find him.”

“Thanks very much, ma'am. You've been very helpful.” He slipped the photo and the paper inside his coat for safekeeping.

“Good luck.” And, more sternly, “and tell him his Great-Aunt Marjorie would like word from time to time.”

The other man smiled for the first time. “Yes, ma'am, I will.”

She watched the wool coat move down the street. “That other lad in the picture did look not a little like him – though with a German uniform. Noooo, he's as English as I am, though I'd guess from Manchester. Just a coincidence.”

*===============*

“Aye, lad, that's the right address, and this is London, but no Bodie here.” The stocky man looked at the picture again. “Good looking lad, but doesn't look familiar at all. Sorry –“

“What's this, Michael?” A smiling, bearded, ginger-haired man came through from the back of the shop. “Something I can help with?”

“Actually, Spence's been round longer than I've been. He may know something.” He turned to the man who had just reached the counter. “Oi, Spence – gentleman here looking for a Philip Bodie, met him during the war.” He handed over the photo.

Spence took a look at the picture. “Bodie… yeah, come to think of it, there used to be a Bodie here, before you joined. Been in the war. Good lad, though kept his boundaries up. And yes, I can see him in that lad, there,” pointing at the smirking footballer. “But he moved on some time ago.”

“Do you know where he's at now?”

“Well, let's see; it's been a few years now, didn't happen yesterday…. Yes, if I remember, said he was done here, couldn't take it any more. Wanted to be normal, forget the past, was moving on somewhere else. But sorry, he didn't say where.

“Personally, I think he lost or left something in the war, though he didn't say much that way. But so many did, so many did.

“So, I'm sorry, Mr - ?”

“Doyle.”

“Mr. Doyle. He were here once, but long gone now. Wish I could help.”


	3. London, 1979

"Just like Cowley to give us time off for Christmas – so we can rotate apartments and unpack," groused Bodie. "The man gets cheaper with every passing day. He owns us body and soul, and now he wants to own time. A regular Dr. Who."

"Here," Doyle said, pointing to a stack of boxes, "make yourself useful. I, for one, shall not be unpacking instead of eating figgy pudding tonight." He crouched down by a set of stereo components, working to reconnect them.

"Well, you won't be eating figgy pudding anyway, because I picked up a Black Forest gâteau."

"Oh, you slaved all day just to make me a Black Forest gâteau? My hero," Doyle deadpanned.

"Or rather Marks and Sparks did. But the plating is the real trick, you see." Bodie leaned over and picked up a smaller, ancient-looking box. "What's this, then?"

"You know, if you will stop at every single box – hold on." Doyle strode over and looked over his partner's shoulder, peering at the markings on the box. "Hmmm, I've been carrying that one around for years, some of my Grandda's old things. Let's open it, maybe put some of them on a shelf."

"Your wish is my command, kemosabe." Bodie drawled an American accent, genuflecting, then fell to it. Doyle rolled his eyes, then went back to assembling his stereo. "Read me the titles while I finish this, and we'll sort out where to put 'em."

Bodie somewhat carefully pried open the box, and pulled a book out. " _Some Do Not..._. Well, that's their loss, then."

"What?" Doyle was deep into wiring behind the stereo unit.

"Book here." Bodie turned it in his hands. " _Some Do Not_ 's the title; s'by Ford Maddox Ford." He opened the cover. "Old, too – date's 1924. I'd say it's a first edition."

"Really? What else is in there?" Doyle was fully focused now, the stereo about done anyway.

"Hmm…" Bodie rustled around in the box. " _All Quiet on the Western Front_ , _A Passage to India_ , _A Farewell to Arms_ , some Kafka, some Woodhouse – looks like your Grand was quite the reader." He leafed through the upturned spines. "Not sure about this one – Rupert Brooke, maybe? You know, the poet. Died on the way to Gallipol – ooops."

A piece of paper fluttered from the book, as Doyle straightened up from his task. Bodie gingerly picked it up, then looked at it.

"Hey, Doyle, take a look at this." He carried it over to his partner, who by now was standing. "It's an old photo."

"Very old, definitely a war – maybe the Great War? - but they're _playing_  something." He took a closer look. "Football, from the looks of it, though no idea of what they're using for a ball."

"I'd guess those uniforms are World War I, 1902 Pattern Service Dress," Bodie hazarded. "One of the best equipped armies to go to war."

Doyle brought his head closer to Bodie's. "Well, not exactly dressed for the weather, that's sure. The one in the back looks like he's fitted out in a kilt! Plus the one with the ball," he grabbed the picture, "is the spitting image of you." He looked again, grinning. "Poor devil."

"Ha-ha-ha. But hold on…," Bodie pointed to another figure on the image. "That one, old son, could be your brother or something."

"Hmmm..." Doyle turned the picture over, then frowned. "It says, 'Philip Bodie, Christmas 1914'."

" _Philip Bodie_? Hold on, why would _you_  have that?"

"Not sure. My Grandmum said that Granddad had lost someone during the Great War – lost him as in couldn't find him, though he spent years looking. Only told me the once, and forbade me from ever bringing it up with him directly. And that is his handwriting. But what's the chance ~"

"~that it would be _our_  grands whose paths had crossed? Pretty small to none, I'd say. I did have a Granddad Bodie, though we were never told much about him. He fought in the war, got gassed, never was the same. Made a go of various things, but more drifted around, eventually disappeared. Maybe it _was_  him."

"What book did you find this in, again?" Doyle glanced around the chaos in the room.

"Hang on." Bodie manoeuvred around the boxes and picked up the book. " _1914 & Other Poems_. Apparently your grand appreciated a good bard." He opened the old book gingerly. "Looks like the picture was tucked in here; you can see the age marks on the page."

"Which poem was it with? I wonder if he picked that one specially."

"He might have; it's 'The Soldier', one of Brooke's most famous. Here it is:"

> If I should die, think only this of me:  
>  That there's some corner of a foreign field  
>  That is for ever England. There shall be  
>  In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;  
>  A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,  
>  Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,  
>  A body of England', breathing English air,  
>  Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
> 
> And think, this heart, all evil shed away,  
>  A pulse in the eternal mind, no less  
>  Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;  
>  Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;  
>  And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,  
>  In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

"Pleasant, that," Doyle finally said. "Though it wasn't an easy war, and it probably helped some of those lads feel a little more comforted about what they were facing."

"Makes me thankful, anyway," Bodie replied. "Our jobs aren't easy, either, could get us killed at any time; but there'd always be a piece of me, what I was fighting for, no matter where I might end up."

"I like to think we live on in the people who knew us, thought kindly of us."

"Who, the Cow? He'd just sum up how much of his investment he'd lost on our untimely demise."

"Nah, Cowley's more human than that, though he hides it well. No, I'm thinking of the people who know us day-to-day." Doyle smiled. "I, for one, would notice if you weren't around. No bad jokes, for example."

"Eh, Doyle, you wouldn't know what to do if I wasn't keeping you out of trouble." Bodie gave the curls one good toussle with his hand.

"Eh, watch it!" Doyle moved the hand away. "As I was saying, would probably end up getting Anson for a new partner. Would have to put up with all the cigar smoke and nut shells. No, took me long enough to get you broken in, not about to throw all that work away."

"But it is odd," Bodie studied the photo again. "Like our paths crossed, though long before we were born."

"Nothing odd; just the way of the world. Be thankful for what you've got, hold on to it; seems pretty straightforward to me." He took the photo from Bodie's hands, and pointed to the remaining books. "Now, let's get this lot straightened out and put away, and we can start on your favorite part – the food."

"No argument there! Tell me where to put them, and it's done." Bodie laughed, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

*===============*

And later, while Bodie was washing up for dinner, Doyle looked at the photo one more time, then placed it in a box with those things that he kept close. "Found mine, Granddad. And won't lose _him_ , if I have anything to say about it," he said, then returned to the feast waiting in the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Solosundance for her beta / Brit-check, and Macklingirl for her translation help.
> 
> To Brian Clemens for making this all possible.
> 
> And to all of you for reading and keeping the faith. 
> 
> ===================================
> 
> Lyrics from "O, Tannenbaum" from [Tradition in Action](http://www.traditioninaction.org/religious/Music_P000_files/p012rpTannebaum.htm).
> 
> Rupert Brook poem is attributed in the text.
> 
> Turner is named for Jack Turner, a Canadian photographer during WWI.
> 
>  **Translations**  
>  Bodie did not know German, so would not have known what they were actually saying. Translations for the discussions are as below:
> 
> 1: Frohe Weihnachten, verdammte Engländer! - Happy Christmas, fucking Englishmen
> 
> 2: Wie sage ich ‚treffen wir uns für Weihnachten‘? - how do I say, 'visit with you for christmas'
> 
> 3: Ich weiß es nicht. Fragen Sie den Mischling dahinten - I don't know. Ask the half-breed back there
> 
> 4: Ich kann dich nochmal in den Arsch treten, weißt du - I can kick your arse a second time, you know
> 
> 5: Soll ich ihnen sagen, dass du wirklich Hans heißt? - Shall I tell them that your name is really Hans?
> 
> 6: Ach, halt die Klappe Doyle und erzähl den Engländern, warum wir hier sind - oh, put a cap on it Doyle and tell the English why we're here
> 
> 7: Fick dich - Fuck you
> 
> Also, the correct term for Englishman in German is 'Engländer'; Bodie calls Doyle “Englischer” to be annoying.


End file.
